Her Bright Star, Fallen
by JetGriffins89
Summary: It was Black family tradition to name their children after celestial bodies, and Walburga was one to follow tradition. She gave her boys proper names: Regulus was her little king, and Sirius... Sirius was her bright star, fallen.


_**Disclaimer: **__I don't own Mrs. Black or anything else you recognize from the Harry Potter books and no profit is being made from this piece. I do own all original prose and interpretations, so no stealing._

_**Summary: **_It was Black Family Tradition to name children after great celestial bodies, and Walburga was one to follow tradition. She gave her boys proper names: Regulus was her little king and Sirius... Sirius was her bright star, fallen.

* * *

Bright Star, Fallen

"_Bringing a child into the world is the greatest act of hope there is." –Louise Hart

* * *

_

Sirius. Sirius Orion Black.

Walburga Black traced the name, strong and proud, with her eyes; she had done her duty. In her arms, her child made a soft noise and Walburga held the infant closer to her heart. Already, she could feel the magic, the power flowing through his veins, just as pure and strong as the blood itself.

Sirius. He was the Heir, her son, her bright star.

* * *

A mother's grief is inconsolable, incomprehensible. Fifteen years after that first time, Walburga sat on the same couch, watching the same spot that had so captivated her after the birth of her first son. (He was gone now, never to be spoken of again, but he would _always _be hers.)

Sirius Orion Black. The name was gone now, the stench of burnt fabric and magic still lingering in the air around her. Now the spot was black—like them, like she had needed for him. (She wanted to rub it out. She wanted it _gone._)

He would deny it to his last breath, but Walburga had loved him. She would deny it, but she had loved him best. He had all the charm of her mother, the charm Walburga had always lacked herself (with smug grins and sparkling eyes, a careless toss of the head) and the same temper (screaming matches for silly, unimportant things; hiding the real problems until that final quarrel). He had the same stubborn, square jaw as his father; the strong, broad shoulders she remembered from her own father; and the steel-grey eyes she had given him. Everything from his mannerisms to his appearance screamed Black—_Tourjours Pur—_but he was not one of them, and she wasn't sure if he ever could have been, if he hadn't been lost from that very first breath.

He was a _Gryffindor, _dressed in the lurid scarlet and gold he wore so proudly. No son of _hers—_ (but Gryffindors were strong, if reckless, and it was a comfort that he was no Hufflepuff despite his misplaced loyalty). He acted out (detentions proof of his power; the pride in the Gryffindor McGonagall's letters—"practicing magic well beyond his years"—made her smile). The Potter boy could be forgiven (pure enough, merely misguided), but the Lupin half-blood could not be forgotten so easily (another failure, purity lost). He chased Muggleborns and half-bloods, but Walburga saw how he looked at the Connolly girl (pure, smart, strong) and it was just adolescent rebellion. But talk at supper (of duty, of propriety, of purity) led to a stony silence, and Walburga started to see the defiance in his eyes, in the line of his brow, the clenching of his jaw. He was slipping away and she knew not how to save him.

A war was brewing, one that would rightfully restore their power, but he wanted no part of it (not on the right side, not on _her _side). He wore Muggle clothes (jackets made from disgusting _cow _hide, thin cloth that couldn't keep him warm enough), sang Muggle songs and hung horrid Muggle pictures on his walls (girls with no pride or history). Regulus spoke of duels at school, of protecting the dubious honor of Mudbloods and blood-traitors, and she heard that horrible lable whispered about her own son. (Regulus was him, but softer, and she could see the longing, the questioning in his eyes behind the Slytherin mask; yet, he remained obedient to her.) He was no longer hers, and she hardened herself (but he was her child, her little boy). Walburga had known what was to come.

"_NO! They are not Mudblood-lovers or half-breeds or Mudbloods. James, Remus and Peter are my friends, my _brothers_."_

She wondered where she'd gone wrong, when she'd lost her son to blood-traitors.

"_I'm leaving. I can't do this anymore. I am not some dog on a leash you can train."_

She wondered when he first looked at her with hate, not love. She wondered when she first did so.

"_Fine." _(She'd seen the flash of pain cross his face, and she'd wanted to hold him, to save him.) _"I won't come back."_

She wondered when bright start started falling.

* * *

Walburga didn't know how many years had passed. She heard whispers, quiet murmurings throughout her home, and for once she did not shout or scream at them (blood traitors and Mudbloods defiling _her _home). They did not care to tell her, but still she knew.

He had always been reckless and tempermental like her (loyal to others, but not to his own blood), and she had seen how their home affected him, affected his sanity. It was true that he'd never been able to sit still, always crafting spells (he'd started so young, but he had always been a sharp boy), and the House drew out the madness that stirred in every Black. (How could they not see it? Only the werewolf noticed, and he was but a ghost of a man.) But now he was gone; she knew it with everything she was (only canvas and paint and magic, soon to fade away).

It is Andromeda's girl, finally, who told her. The grief had straightened her hair, darkening it and sharpening her features until she looked like her mother (another one lost, why must they run so far?), like Bellatrix (the madness was stronger there; Walburga had seen the hate grow in her eyes), like a Black (proud and pure and sure). Andromeda's Mudblood had not sullied the girl much; Walburga felt her magic and her strength, heard it in her name (Nymphadora—even Andromeda had not been able to eascape far enough, fast enough).

"Sirius." (No, no! She should _not _speak his name.) The girl took a deep breath, stemming tears from grief that no Black would have shown. "Sirius died. Last week."

The curtain was closet, and she did not fight it, did not hate the darkness. (Why must everything be so dark? Black, Black, pure and proper.) Her boy was gone (so is the other; lost so many years ago doing something of which Kreacher could not speak. Regulus was more like him than her in the end). He had shone with power and promise (for others, not her; she had lost her chance), but they had broken him, _killed _him and he was gone.

(Eyes dark with hate, words shouted in disgust.)

Walburga screamed.

(He was her baby boy, her pride and joy. First to call her Mummy, first to hold her heart, first to break it.)

She screamed and screamed and screamed. She screamed so the traitor's child would hear her, so the werewolf could feel her pain, so the Potter boy could understand what he had taken from her, like his father had done years before.

Her first son, her little boy. He was her bright star, fallen.

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**Author's Notes: **So, I've finally edited this one. It's still one of the only times I've written from a non-good-guy point of view, but it's also one of my favorite pieces. I hope you still like it if your read and reviewed it the first time around. If you're new to the story and read it, please review.


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